


Once Bitten, Twice Shy

by Ostentenacity



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MAG180 Spoilers, Upton House (The Magnus Archives), here. have some Annabelle feels, if I have to have them yall do too, wild speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26634925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ostentenacity/pseuds/Ostentenacity
Summary: Jon pauses on the edge of the sunbeam and reaches out his hand. It’s warm, but not the oppressive heat of the burning tenement building, nor even the muggy, clinging heat of the Extinction domain they’d passed through. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t make his hand fall off or rot away or burn to ash. There’s no surprise, no twist, nopunishment.It’s just a ray of sun. It’s just a hand.---Jon doesn’t understand why he doesn’t feel better about this sudden reprieve. It might have something to do with the way Annabelle is acting, though.
Relationships: Annabelle Cane & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 51
Kudos: 163





	Once Bitten, Twice Shy

**Author's Note:**

> First 170, now 180… *puts “recover from/write fic about TMA episode 190??” on my calendar*
> 
> Thanks to [rustkid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rustkid) for letting me borrow your Annabelle idea, and to [god_commissioned_me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/god_commissioned_me/) for beta reading!!
> 
> Content warnings at the end.

“Mikaele… Salesa?” says Jon, before crumpling into a tiny, malnourished heap. Martin is, as ever, not far behind.

* * *

For a while, everything is a blur. 

The first time Jon wakes—on a sofa, to his disoriented confusion—he immediately tries to get up and go find Annabelle to ask what’s going on, but his legs betray him after only three steps, and he passes out almost immediately afterwards.

The second time Jon wakes, he realizes that he doesn’t know where Martin is, and spends his twenty seconds of consciousness looking around frantically before realizing that Martin’s sofa had been back-to-back with his. When he collapses, he does so on the floor next to it.

The third time Jon wakes, both sofas have been moved to face one another, and a piece of paper is taped to his cheek. He peels it off, wincing at the feeling of the tape coming loose, and squints at the loopy cursive until it resolves into actual words.

_Please stay put this time. Poor Mikaele is going to throw out his back if he has to move you again. You can ask me anything you want as soon as you stop fainting. Food will probably help with that also. Check the end table._

Jon looks up. Sure enough, there’s an end table next to the sofa, bearing several disposable water bottles and a variety of pre-packaged foods that look like they’d come from the museum cafeteria. 

He stares at the food for a little while, too worn-out to think it through properly. It could be a trap. It could be fine. He doesn’t know. (And it’s a measure of how far from normal his life has gotten, the fact that that thought still makes him giddy even under the present circumstances.)

Jon’s stomach rumbles, and he makes his decision. If Annabelle—or Mikaele, honestly—wanted to poison him, or otherwise harm him, they could have done it several times over by now. He breaks the seal on one of the water bottles with shaking hands and downs it in three greedy gulps. He only manages a single granola bar before his stomach, empty for so long, begs for mercy.

He doesn’t feel much better, honestly. But he probably will after more sleep.

* * *

When Jon wakes next, he feels marginally stronger. Martin is still passed-out opposite him, though he must have woken at some point; some of the food and water is gone.

Jon looks at the space between the sofas and then cautiously gets to his feet. Maneuvering Martin’s legs without his active cooperation is difficult, but Jon does manage to arrange himself into a sitting position with Martin’s knees in his lap without collapsing again. Sleeping upright isn’t as comfortable, but it’s hardly the first time Jon’s done it, and there isn’t room for both of them to lie down.

* * *

The final time Jon wakes, in that first hazy stretch of time, he’s in a different position than he’d been before. For a moment, he thinks he’s been moved back again, but then he realizes that his head is resting, not on an armrest, but rather in Martin’s lap. A soft chuckle comes from above him as he blinks in the light from the small chandelier, and a warm, familiar hand brushes his face.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” says Martin, a smile audible in his voice. 

“Is it morning?” Jon groans, stretching. He’s sore all over, though whether that’s down to the sofa, the position in which he fell asleep, or the previous—weeks? Months? Period of un-time, he supposes—spent without rest, he can’t be certain.

“It _is,”_ says Martin, gleeful. “Sun in the sky and everything.”

Jon turns his head, and sure enough, there’s sunlight slanting in through the window, casting a bright rectangle on the wooden floor. Jon gets unsteadily to his feet and hobbles over to it. Martin is close behind, ready to catch him if he falls, but after the long rest, Jon is steady on his feet. He takes care, though—he suspects that if he _were_ to fall, and Martin did try to catch him, it would end with both of them on the floor again.

He pauses on the edge of the bright spot and reaches out his hand. It’s warm, but not the oppressive heat of the burning tenement building, nor even the muggy, clinging heat of the Extinction domain they’d passed through. It’s dry and gentle, and the light catches on the tiny hairs on the back of his hand, making them gleam faintly. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t make his hand fall off or rot away or burn to ash. There’s no surprise, no twist, no _punishment._ It’s just a ray of sun. It’s just a hand.

A hand that is _filthy,_ Jon notes. He’s almost glad for the prickle of revulsion he feels at the grime trapped under his fingernails and ground into the creases of his palm; it punctures the strange bubble of _something_ beside his heart. He has a feeling he’d been about to make a scene. “I think I need to wash my hands,” he says. “And also everything else.”

Martin chuckles. “I do, too. Do you think there’s an actual bathroom somewhere in here, and not just a public toilet?” 

“I have no idea,” says Jon, inordinately pleased. “Though I hope it’s the former, for our sake.”

As it turns out, the museum does have a proper bathroom. Several of them, in fact. Jon suspects they hadn’t been intended for general use when the museum had been functional, but there’s nobody else here to scold him or Martin for using them. Except for Annabelle and Mikaele, of course, but judging by the vaguely folded heap of new-with-tags clothing from the museum gift shop waiting in the hall outside, Jon doesn’t think they’ll mind.

The strange feeling from earlier comes back as Jon lies back in the bathtub, still aching faintly from the vigorous scrubbing he’s just subjected himself to. The bathwater is gentle against his skin; warm, soothing, sweet-scented from the soap. It’s not boiling or freezing or acidic or full of tiny biting things. It feels so good. 

It makes him feel _guilty._

Which is a ridiculous way to feel about a bath. Jon sinks lower in the water, until it laps at his bottom lip. If matters were so urgent as to render this brief respite a liability, he’s sure Annabelle would have turned up to check in by now, so he’s not directly inconveniencing anyone. The bath isn’t intended for use by the general public, but that’s not exactly relevant anymore, so that’s probably not it either. The use of the soap, the water, the food, and the clothes are all similarly irrelevant; none of the people to whom it would usually make a difference care right now, and it’s not like the ethics of taking a bath versus a shower hold a candle to everything else that’s going on.

Honestly, getting cleaned up is probably a net positive, ethics-wise. At the very least, it’s the polite thing to do, as far as other people’s noses are concerned. So why does he still feel like he’s doing something shameful?

His musing is interrupted by a gentle knock at the door. “Jon?” comes Martin’s voice. “I’m all done. I think I’m gonna—gonna probably wait in the room we woke up in, okay? I don’t really want to talk to, um, those two by myself.”

“All right,” Jon calls, and begins extricating himself from the tub. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

He tucks the thought away for later. There are more important things to consider than his feelings at present.

* * *

Annabelle Cane _will_ _not stop being ominous._

She’s entirely too calm, until Martin complains, and then she’s just slightly too animated. She keeps adjusting the colorful hat that hides the site of her infamous head wound just a little too frequently to be absentminded, as if she’s drawing attention to it. She asks the two of them to trust her, and then refuses to say why, only that they need to build up their strength before any “discussions of strategy” can take place. There is not a single spider or strand of web to be found on her person—nor, indeed, in the house.

Mikaele isn’t much better; he follows Annabelle’s lead. He’s gregarious and happy to entertain, either at the piano or by regaling Jon and Martin with stories of his sailing days, but he won’t talk about how he came to be in this tiny pocket of relative normalcy with _Annabelle Cane,_ of all people. At least, not until he’s sure neither of them will faint again, he tells them with a laugh. Jon isn’t sure whether to be more annoyed at the fact that he’s almost certainly half-joking, or that he’s _only_ half-joking.

The whole affair makes Martin anxious, which unfortunately also makes him irritable and snappish. Jon tries to be as soothing as he can, but he’s not always good at it; sometimes he gets irritable in response, despite his best efforts, and sometimes he can’t help but withdraw. 

They’re not fighting. At this point, most of their relationship has happened against a backdrop of extreme stress, and they’re becoming quite practiced at not lashing out at one another, at offering what comfort they can. But it’s hard, especially when Jon still feels so _bad_ all the time. He feels closer to human than he has in years, and—possibly-evil housemates aside—the museum is not an unpleasant place to spend time, especially compared with where they’ve been. He doesn’t understand why he doesn’t feel better about being here.

He knows it can’t last. Of _course_ he does. Despite the lack of obvious nefarious plans, this whole thing could still be a trap. And even if it isn’t, they’ll eventually have to leave. In this little bubble of normalcy, the typical laws of physics are operating in full force; all four of the occupants have to eat regularly. There just isn’t enough _here_ to support all four of them indefinitely, even if Jon were capable of giving up on the rest of the world. 

The very best he can hope for is that it’s a temporary diversion; a waste of time, as far as their quest is concerned. Just a tiny, fleeting glimpse of something like the life he and Martin could have had together, if things had gone differently. Very possibly the only such glimpse he’ll ever get. Almost certainly the best one. 

He wants, very much, to enjoy it while he can. But the rest of him doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. And besides, Martin’s obvious frustration and worry is nearly as affecting as his own guilt.

* * *

It all comes to a head a few days after Jon’s return to full consciousness. He and Martin have taken to pestering Annabelle and/or Mikaele for information each morning after breakfast until they get fed up, then retreating to the room they’ve been staying in to strategize, then attacking again from a different angle, rinse, repeat. But today, Martin gets irate much more quickly than usual.

“I’m done,” he says abruptly. “I can’t deal with this. I’m going outside.”

“Not out—?” Jon begins to ask, anxiously.

 _“Obviously_ not outside the bubble, I’m not _stupid,”_ Martin snaps, and stalks out the front door before Jon can get another word in.

Jon aches to follow him, but if Martin is upset enough to lash out uncharacteristically, he probably won’t appreciate the company. So instead, he turns back to Annabelle, who is still watching Martin, an odd expression on her face.

In this place, Jon is all but entirely cut off from the Eye; all his unearthly knowledge has left him. But sometimes, good old human intuition is almost as good.

“This is what you want,” he says. Not a question, but a statement of fact. “To frustrate us enough that you can separate us.”

Annabelle regards him for a long moment, and then nods.

“Why?” Jon’s voice is a ragged thing in his ears, angry and hurt.

Annabelle sighs and reaches up to adjust her hat again. “Would you believe me if I told you that I just want to save one person?”

The answer is so unexpected that Jon has to take a moment to formulate a response. _“What?”_

“When we leave this place,” says Annabelle, with a patience that makes Jon grit his teeth, “you’ll go back to belonging to the Eye. And _I_ will go back to belonging to the Web.”

“You expect me to believe you’re somehow—what, immune to the Web’s manipulations just because it can’t _directly_ influence you here?” Jon shakes his head. “I’ve read a few too many manipulation-themed statements to believe that.”

Annabelle sighs. “Of course I don’t expect you to think that,” she says. “I will do as the Mother wishes, now and always, whether I like it or not. She’s touched my life too deeply for me to ever extricate myself. I won’t insult your intelligence by pretending otherwise.”

“Then...?”

She shrugs. For the first time, Jon is struck by how human the gesture seems. “What I’m planning needs you, and it needs me, and it needs Mikaele, as well. It doesn’t need your Martin. In fact, he’s more likely to be a liability than a help. Not a _significant_ one, though, you understand. For the purposes of what we’re going to do, he’s…” She waves a hand. “Immaterial.”

“That’s quite the assumption you’re making there,” says Jon coldly. “I haven’t agreed to anything.”

Annabelle gives him a look that says _don’t be an idiot._ “I’m sure you’ve noticed that there’s not enough food here for all of us to last very long,” she says. “Maybe if it were a farm, instead of a manor house, but renovating like that would take time that the four of us don’t have. One person, though… _one_ person might be able to get by for long enough to make this place sustainable.”

Jon’s eyes narrow. “So, out of the goodness of your own heart, you’re trying to destroy our relationship thoroughly enough that he can live here, in this one tiny, boring corner of the real world, _alone,_ for the rest of his life.”

“Well, when you put it like _that,_ of course it sounds bad,” says Annabelle, scowling. “But essentially, yes. Think about it. No, really, _think._ A life untouched by any of the Powers—really, truly _untouched._ It would be lonely, sure, but not _Lonely._ And more people might stumble across this place, too. It’ll never exactly be bustling, I’ll grant you that, but it would be peaceful. It wouldn’t _hurt._ ”

Jon, much to his own frustration, feels a stab of longing at her words.

“It’s been a very long time since I’ve been able to do anything even approaching kindness,” Annabelle continues. “Or generosity. I’ve spent almost my entire life being an instrument of pain, and I never _once_ got a real choice about it. I would think that you, of all people, would know something of what that’s like.”

Jon opens his mouth to contradict her, and finds he can’t. Not truthfully, anyway. “I… suppose I do,” he says instead. “But—”

She holds up a hand to stop him. “I want to do one good thing,” she says. “Just the one. I’m unlikely to ever get another chance. The Mother doesn’t exactly use me for altruistic acts, and once I leave, she’s _never_ going to let me come back here. So, yes, I’m trying to get you to leave Martin behind. We both know that he wouldn’t agree to stay if I weren’t doing this, and what I’m offering him is better than what he’ll get, if he comes with us when we go.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I have a pretty good idea,” she says evenly.

Jon looks at her for a long moment. She shifts under his gaze, as if self-conscious, and tugs her hat lower. Somehow, despite himself, he can’t quite find it in him to begrudge her the actions of the past few days. “I’m going to tell him what you told me,” says Jon. “Staying or going is his choice to make. Not mine, and _certainly_ not yours.”

Something crumbles in Annabelle’s expression, but she nods. 

“...But you’re right,” says Jon. “I do know what that’s like. And I do understand what you were trying to do, even if it wasn’t right of you to interfere that way.”

He turns and walks after Martin without waiting to see how she reacts. He doesn’t want to have to puzzle over what her reaction means, or whether admitting that tidbit was the right thing to do.

* * *

Martin is sitting on the grass outside, looking out towards the ruined, shifting landscape beyond. He doesn’t react as Jon approaches, although Jon takes care to make his steps heavier than usual, so as not to startle him.

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” says Jon quietly, once he’s only a meter or two away. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”

Martin finally maneuvers around to face him, and Jon’s heart lurches to see his reddened eyes. “I know you don’t think that. I’m sorry for snapping. I don’t know why I reacted the way I did.”

Jon steps forward and kneels by his side, tugging Martin forward until his head rests on Jon’s shoulder. “I don’t blame you. I know how much you don’t like having to wait like this, with no end in sight.”

Martin sighs, his breath warm against Jon’s neck, and his arms come up to wrap around Jon’s waist. The warmth of his body contrasts beautifully with the cool breeze, and Jon shivers lightly. It feels just as good as the heady rush of fear from one of his so-called vents.

…Ah.

“Jon?” Martin says, and Jon realizes that he’s gone tense. 

He makes an effort to unclench his arms. “Sorry,” he says. “Just realized something. Uh—one of the reasons I’ve been feeling so strange since I got here, I think.”

“Oh?”

“It’s not—pleasant,” says Jon. “I didn’t bring it up because—because I wanted to divert the conversation, or beg for sympathy, or—”

“Jon. Please tell me?”

“I suppose I’ve gotten rather used to feeling guilty whenever what I’m experiencing feels good,” says Jon. “It’s been a while since something this pleasant has happened to me that didn’t involve someone else being in pain.”

Martin’s arms tighten in sympathy, and Jon does his best to relax into the feeling. “I wish we didn’t have to leave,” says Martin. “I don’t want you to have to go back out there. I mean, I don’t want _me_ to go back there either, but. I wish you didn’t have to deal with this.”

“I do, too.” Jon sighs. “When you… left, I talked with Annabelle for a bit.”

“Oh?” Martin’s voice is more guarded, now. “What did she say?”

“She admitted to trying to drive a wedge between us on purpose,” says Jon. “She wanted to get you to stay here when I leave.”

“Stay with her, or…?”

“Alone.”

Martin shivers. “Did she say why?”

“She _said_ it was because her plan doesn’t need you, and she wanted to spare one person from the apocalypse.”

Martin pulls back to give Jon a skeptical look. “Did she, now.”

Jon shrugs. “I have no way of knowing whether or not she was telling the truth. Not in here, anyway. For what it’s worth, she did seem sincere? But I told her it’s your decision to make, not hers.”

“Mine? Not ours?”

Jon looks down. “I need you, Martin. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t with me. But if you _did_ want to stay, I would—I don’t know, really. But I wouldn’t make you leave if you didn’t want to go.”

Martin’s eyebrows draw together. “Do you really think I’d do that?”

“Of _course_ not,” says Jon, and Martin’s face relaxes. “But I couldn’t just—just _not_ tell you it was an option, even if I already knew what you’d say.”

Martin leans forward and kisses him lightly on the cheek. “Thank you. And for the record, I am _not_ leaving you. Not now, not ever.”

“Thank you,” Jon whispers. Martin kisses him again.

“Now if we could just get her to tell us what the plan _is…”_ Martin runs a hand through his hair. “Do you think she’d tell us now, if we asked?”

“I think so,” says Jon. “But…”

“But?”

“Would you still mind the waiting, if…” Jon bites his lip. “If you knew when it would be over?”

“Maybe?” Martin frowns. “What do you have in mind?”

“Three days.”

“What?”

“It’s not exactly likely that we’ll get another chance like this,” says Jon, throat suddenly tight. He reaches up to rub at his eyes. “And Annabelle was already stalling. So whatever comes next probably isn’t especially urgent. And I thought… maybe we could have just a little while. Not forever. Not even very long. Just… just three days, and then we’ll start planning.”

“What about everyone still out there?” 

“I honestly, _truly_ do not believe any of them are even capable of noticing the delay,” says Jon. “But if you can’t stomach it, then we don’t have to. I just thought…” He sighs. “There would never have been enough time. Even if we’d made it out, even if all this had never happened, there would never have been enough time. Not for me. But three weeks is… is _so_ much less than I wanted. And if I can’t have a lifetime, then… then maybe I can have three and a _half_ weeks instead.” 

Martin’s hands come up to cup his face. “Yeah,” he says, with infinite gentleness. “Yeah, all right. I can wait three days.”

Jon closes his eyes, relief putting a smile on his face. “Thank you.” 

* * *

Jon’s right, of course. It’s not enough time. But it’s time he never thought he’d have, and he carries it with him, beside his heart, until the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: canon-typical angsting about free will, vague allusions to potential canon-typical injuries but nothing explicit, bittersweet ending.
> 
> Want to make my day? Tell me what you liked!


End file.
